Sinew
by Spinesless
Summary: Merlin flies through the air, time slowing. When it speeds up, he hits the ground with a sickening crunch.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Merlin. T for language.**

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There's one moment, one split second before his body comes in contact with the frozen ground, where time seems to stand still. The din of battle sounds miles away, and Merlin feels like he is able reflect. However, only one notion makes itself known in his swirling mess of thoughts, and that is simply, _fuck_ destiny.

And then time resumes it's semi-normal, wobbly path and he absolutely _slams_ into compact––dirt? no, more like stone––and he hears the quite audible 'crack' or _something_ snapping. His flailing limbs do little to still his momentum and he flips head over heels, landing with a final wheeze partially covered by a thicket of bushes.

The air is absolutely stolen from his lungs and Merlin is having a difficult time regaining it. He gasps like a fish out of water, his vision mottled over with shades of blue and black and gray. _No, no, no unconsciousness, _he wills himself. _You still need to make sure that Arthur is in once piece_. But _gods almighty_, his head hurts, and the pain in his wrist is so strong it's making him physically ill. It feels like the ground is sucking him downward, and he feels a faint pull, like he's actually being swallowed by th––

"_Oi! Merlin_?"

If he could, he would have sighed.

"Merlin?" Goodness, is that––concern? in the prince's voice? No, no. Impossible. "Merlin, for gods' _sake_." The quickening of footsteps. Merlin fears that he will succumb to the pull of unconsciousness if he turns his head to look.

Arthur appears in his clearing vision, overhead. "You alive, then?"

"Seems to be, thanks." His voice cracks.

"The magician got away."

Ah, too bad. "Sorry."

Arthur just sighs, running a hand through his hair. He surveys the forest, hands on hips, before turning back to Merlin. "You're just gonna lay there, then?"

"Dunno if I can stand, if I'm honest."

Exaggerated eyeroll. Prat. See how he likes it.

"You're such a _girl, _Merlin!" Two arms are heaving him up before Merlin can protest, depositing him on uncertain feet. He cradles his surely-broken wrist close to his chest and sways slightly. "Arthur?"

His own voice sounds strange, like he's farther away than he actually it. But that's impossible, you can't be far away from your own voice.

Whatever the case, Arthur isn't paying attention; his back is turned and he appears to be marching back to a clearing of trees, where the ambush started.

Lightheadedness overtakes Merlin, a feeling he's somewhat acquainted with, the outcome of being overworked and underfed. _Please don't pass out, _he begs. _Pleasedon'tpassoutpleasedon'tpassoutpleasedon'tpassout_.

For a reason beyond him, he decided to takes a step forward. Stomach churning, he calls out again. "Arthur!"

i'm gonna be sick i'm gonna be sick i'm gonna die in these woods i'm gonna be sick i'm sorry Kilgharrah and Gaius and the druids and gods i'm gonna be sick

The prince turns around with an excessive sigh. His lips start to move but words don't ever reach Merlin's ears because he feels the world tilt violently underneath him and the ground is rushing to meet his aching head and he thinks he might hear Arthur call him name, but he can't be sure because he succumbs to unconsciousness.

Everything is easier when you're asleep.

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**a/n: to be continued i guess maybe review please but only if you want too**


	2. Chapter 2

Consciousness makes it self known at an unspecific moment in time, but once Merlin is aware of the fact that he is awake, his sleeping state is too far away to be summoned once more. Without opening his eyes, he can tell he's still on the ground, feeling smell pebbles gently nudge themselves against his aching back and cold seep through his shirt. He hears a tearing sound nearby. He lets his mind clear from extremely foggy to slightly less foggy than before prior to opening his eyes.

Above him are trees, or what he interprets as trees––slender black fingers that spiderweb across a pale background. Which isn't surprising seeing as they're––hunting? No, not hunting. He struggles to remember.

Ground, trees. . . magic? No, no. Ground. Ground especially. Ouch.

Oh, _ouch._

Merlin hoarsely gasps upon the realization of _pain_. A drumming in his head that seems to stem from his very brain, aches all over and an immense throbbing in his left arm. It doesn't feel as if it is on fire, per se, burns are a very particular kind of pain, one that is consistent and _hot, _no, this is not a flaming sort of pain. It feels like whatever it is that keeps him together has sundered.

The sound of tearing stops suddenly. "Merlin?" A familiar voice.

With some amount of effort, Merlin turns his head to the side, making his world momentarily spin. When it stills, he is staring into the very concerned eyes of his prince. Ah.

"Hello." He manages to keep his voice even.

Arthur just shakes his head. "Merlin, you never cease to amaze me."

Internal groan. "Can we not do this right now."

The sound resumes. Arthur is cutting up what seems to be some poor sod's extra shirt into strips with his hunting knife. He spies a thin plank of wood next to a small pile of fabric strips. "What––What are you doing?"

Arthur rolls his eyes heavily. "Well, seeing as you went and got your arm broken––brillaint job, by the way!––you can't exactly go riding back to Camelot in that state. You'd never shut up. I'd never hear the end of it. Ohhh, Arthur, my arm hurts!"

"I don't sound like that."

Arthur shoots him a pointed look. "Now is not the time to argue with the man fixing you a splint."

Merlin's turn to roll his eyes. "Terribly sorry _Your Highness_. But what, pray tell, did you expect me to do?"

"Well, not stick your arms out, that's for sure, I mean, did you really expect that to work? Honestly Merlin, don't you know how to fall?"

"There's a proper way to fall?"

Another look. "Yes, in fact, several! Ones that avoid snapping the bones in your wrist."

"Well, I s'pose you'll just have to teach me, then."

"Yes, I suppose I'll just have to." He brightens. "I'll get to knock you off things."

External groan. "Joy."

"Oh, don't be so down. What's a few bruises if you get to avoid breaking another limb?"

"You're making it sound like is my fault."

"Well, I _said_ 'duck'––"

"'_Duck'_ doesn't count when someone is _already_ in the air––are––are you _laughing_?"

Arthur's shoulders shake with constrained laughter. He grins, shaking his head. _Merlin, Merlin, Merlin_. "I suppose I should thank you for distracting the magician long enough to get rid of it's bodyguards."

"Oh, you know, what's a broken wrist for the safety of a prince?"

"I mean it, you know."

"As do I. I'd do anything for you, Arthur, I had hoped you already knew that."

Touched, Arthur looked into his lap. He swallowed, "Thank you, Merlin," and finished cutting strips of fabric.

Merlin mercifully changed the subject. "Which of your poor knights did you bully a shirt from?"

"None. This is, well, _was_ my extra shirt. I'm binding your wound with royal cloth. You better feel important."

"Oh, how you ravish me, Prince Arthur."

The grin that finds itself on Arthur's face slowly recedes as he gathers up the cloth strips. "I need to splint your wrist. I'll. . . I'll try to be gentle. You break anything else?"

Merlin exhaled. "No, just knocked my head a bit. How––How do you knights handle it? Getting bumped and banged around and stabbed at all the time. Even this stupid thing hurts like––like, I don't know. It's not very pleasant, to say the least."

"Well, of course it hurts."

"What's the trick, then?"

"The trick is not minding that it hurts."

Merlin makes a face. "What sort of half-assed advice is that?"

"Shut up, Merlin." Just. Try not to scream.

Arthur loosely takes Merlin's wrist in his grasp, already prompting the utterance of a sound of protest. Ignoring it, he continues, placing the plank against against the underside of Merlin's swollen forearm. He, then, takes a strip of the aforementioned "royal cloth", wrapping it taut, overlapping one after another until he pulls especially tight on one piece halfway through. Merlin cries out in pain.

Arthur winces. "Look, I'm sorry, but..."

"No, it's fine, just hurry up, would you?" The pounding in his head has increased tenfold.

Arthur obliges. By the time he's done, Merlin is pinched and pale, eyes having slid closed. Arthur fears his manservant has passed out again, until a weak, "Can we go home now?" passes his lips.

"Do you think you can stand?"

"Only if you're around to catch me if I swoon."

Shaking his head (again), Arthur helps Merlin carefully to his feet. The latter sways for a moment before taking a few shaky steps forward. Arthur guides him steadily and assists him climbing onto his horse.

"You alright, then?"

Merlin grips the reins in his right hand. "How far is Camelot again?"

"Couple of hours."

"Let's get a move on, then."

By the time the party reaches Camelot, the sun is fading, and so is Merlin. He doesn't respond to Arthur's callings at first, looking around with a confused "Hm?" He nearly falls when he dismounts his horse, but before he can, Arthur is there, arm on his back, holding him up.

"Let's get you to Gaius," he says in his ear.

"What? No, I must––you haven't eaten all day––"

"Neither have you, remember? I'm quite capable of getting my own dinner, Merlin."

"But I need... to tidy up, and build a fire, and draw you a bath, polish your armor––"

"Merlin, look at me." The two stop in the middle of the courtyard, the last rays of sunlight stretching shadows. "I don't want to see you in my chambers, doing any chores until you're healed. Is that understood?"

Merlin looks anywhere but Arthur. He fidgets, clearly agitated.

"I _said_, is that understood?"

"Yes, sire."

"Good. Let's get you to Gaius."

They go through the castle and Merlin almost makes it.

The two get a staircase and a hallway from the court physician's chambers and then Merlin stops suddenly and Arthur wills him to be alright, but a broken arm and bad concussion and cold and fatigue are too much and

"Arthur? Arthur?" and

"I'm here, Merlin, what is it?" and

"I can't see."

Merlin folds in on himself, almost collapsing to the ground but Arthur catches him, shaking his shoulder, "Merlin, wake up, we're almost there." But there's no answer and Arthur just sighs, one arm around his shoulder the other under his knees and he hoists Merlin up, carrying him the final leg of the journey.

He knocks harshly on the heavy door and Gaius answers almost immediately like he knew that something was wrong, surprise betraying him only in his eyes, but he leads them into the room, gesturing to the bed in the centre and asks, "What happened?"

"We were attacked by a magician and what appeared to be mercenaries. The magician hit Merlin with some sort of magic attack and he fell on his arm. Hit his head, too he's got a nasty concussion. I splinted his wrist as best I could."

Gaius gets to work, rolling up his sleeves and cutting away the carefully constructed splint and Arthur just stands there, not sure what to do.

Gaius looks up. "You should get washed up, sire, and let your––the king know about the magician."

"Oh––I––yes, of course. Thank you, Gaius. Do you, ah, will you be needing any help?"

Gaius's eyes soften. "No, thank you, sire, broken bones are not an uncommon occurrence. I've treated you and your knights enough times."

"Oh. Of course. Right. I'll be going then." He turns and stars toward the door but then "Sire?"

"Yes?" Too eager.

"Thank you for bringing him back."

A slight smile. "Of course, Gaius. Make sure he gets better."

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**a/n: to be continued, one last time. bit of dialogue in the middle inspired by/shamelessly stolen from Lawrence in Arabia. editing this on my phone, please excuse grammatical errors. review if you would be so inclined. **

**thank you for reading. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin. T for language.**

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Merlin is not used to being idle.

He is used to sprinting around the castle and surrounding villages, doing errands for Gaius. He is collecting herbs before dawn, dropping off tonics throughout the citadel. He is used doing chores for Arthur, such as laundry and armor-cleaning and mucking out stables. Even in Ealdor he worked tirelessly in one way or another (although he was able to use magic to help him).

Merlin does not like this sudden stillness, this act of doing perfectly nothing. He likes a break now and again, yes, but remaining unmoving causes him to fidget; he needs to be doing _something_.

Despite his constant whining and claims of boredom, Gaius is steadfast.

"If you disrupt the healing process you will successfully mangle your wrist," he had firmly said. "If you intend to keep your job, you _need _the use of your wrist, Merlin. Just rest up for a few days."

It's been three days since he returned, he can't do this any more. His concussion is gone (well, at least the dry-heaves have stopped and the dizziness has worn off) and the pain in his arm has been reduced to a background throbbing, due to Gaius's foul tasting potion. Merlin is almost certain that he can find something to do that only involves the use of one wrist.

So, when Gaius leaves to do his midday rounds, Merlin slips out of bed. He doesn't see how he can change his shirt with his arm in a sling so he settles for changing into a new pair of breeches. He struggles with the fasteners on his boots for a few minutes, but manages to get those done up as well.

_Laundry_, he thinks, closing the door behind him. He can fold a few shirts with the use of just one arm, easily. It's simple, menial, and will keep him out of Gaius's hair for a few hours. Merlin picks up the prince's clean clothes from the laundresses, balancing the basket on his hip as he walks. He nearly loses his grip on it several times.

Arthur isn't in his room when Merlin enters. Merlin figures he's at a council meeting or training or something. He leaves the laundry behind in the room and goes down to the kitchens to pick up Arthur's lunch.

The member of the kitchen staff who hands him the plate looks at Merlin dubiously, as though he knows there is a little chance of the plate getting back to the prince intact. His eyes linger on the bandaged arm but he relinquishes the food anyway.

The staff member was right, of course. Merlin stumbles on the stairs and drops the plate, his eyes flashing gold just before it hits the floor. He quickly scoops it up and looks around wildly, but no one is around to see him. He continues back to the prince's room, heart pounding.

Arthur is waiting for him when he comes back. Posture straight, hands behind his back, he stands beside the table where the basket of clean clothes rests. Merlin starts when he sees him, breath catching in his throat and plate wobbling slightly in his grip.

"Merlin," Arthur says.

"Sire," Merlin inclines his head a bit.

"What _exactly_ are you doing here?"

Merlin swallows. "Laundry?" If he had a free hand, he would use it to gesture. "I brought you lunch." The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly.

Arthur frowns. "I noticed." He continues. "Gaius said it was alright for you to work, then?"

"Er––"

"Lying would be a very poor choice."

"...Not exactly, no, he didn't."

"Then I'll ask again, since you do seem to be mentally deficient: _what_ are you doing here?"

"I was _bored_," Merlin exclaims sharply. "I can't stand stand being inactive for too long. I get restless." He shifts where he stands as to prove a point. "It's been three days."

"I told you not to come back until you're healed."

"That could take months!" Merlin protests.

"Are you worried that I'll replace you?"

Merlin looks down. "Yeah, a bit," he admits. "I mean, I do happen to like my job."

"Do you?"

"Yeah, believe it or not. I have no idea why. Perhaps I'm indeed going insane."

Arthur softens just a touch. "Broken bones are serious, you know," he lectures.

"I know."

"Sit." Arthur points to a chair beside the table.

"My legs aren't broken."

"_Mer_lin."

Merlin places the plate of food on the opposite end of the table and takes a seat, pulling the basket of clothes closer to him. Arthur just shakes his head and drops into the other chair. He picks at his food and watches Merlin clumsily fold a pair of pants.

"I don't think I've ever met a servant who's ever _wanted_ to go back to work. You are truly different, Merlin."

Merlin grins. "You have no idea."

Arthur gives him a bit of an odd look and Merlin drops his head, focusing on the clothes in front of him.

"What... er... any word on the sorcerer we encountered in the, ah, forest?"

Arthur chews. "Dead."

"Dead?"

The prince nods. "Caught by patrol the day before yesterday. Was gonna take him back for a trial, but he had other plans." Arthur catches Merlin staring.

Merlin clears his throat. "I wasn't aware."

"I believe you were still unconscious at that point."

"Oh." Merlin fingers a patch of neat stitches on one of the prince's shirts. "Right."

"He was a sorcerer, Merlin. He used magic. He broke the law."

"Yes, I'm aware of the law, thank you, Arthur."

The prince looks closely at Merlin who appears to be engrossed in perfecting the folds on a shirt. His odd manservant who––and he would deny this––had been missed sorely in the past few days. Other servants served him, sure, but they were all void of personality, all "yes sire" and "no sire" and "I'll see to it immediately, sire". He was glad to have Merlin back.

"You're still useless."

Merlin sighs. "Yes, I know. There's not a lot to do that involves just the use of one arm."

"I suppose not."

"I'm a fast healer, though, don't you worry. I'll be back to polished the royal armor in no time."

Arthur picks apart a crust of bread with his fingertips. "You could keep me company until then."

"Sorry?" Merlin swears he's misheard.

Arthur tries to be casual about it. "I'm sure I could put you to work, doing something. If you strain yourself, though, Gaius will surely have both our heads. You can write, yes?"

Merlin nods.

"Did you injure your writing hand?"

Merlin shakes his head.

"You can be a scribe of sorts. I'm sure Geoffrey could use a bit of help, writing something down, or...something. You could ask him for a task and work up here." Arthur clears his throat. "If you want."

Merlin considers this, secretly pleased by the offer. "Yes," he accepts. "Alright."

"Then, when you're all healed up, I can teach you how to fall without snapping your limbs."

"Oh, _Arthur_. Is that really necessary?" And here Merlin thought the prince was being kind for once in his life.

Arthur grins. "Entirely so."

"You sadistic prat."

Arthur reaches over and lightly punches his good shoulder.

"Ow! ––You can't hit an injured man!"

"Really? Because I think I just did, _Mer_lin."

"You're a royal arse, you know that, Arthur?"

"Keep talking, Merlin. You sure you want to keep your job?"

Merlin looks down, still grinning. "Thank you, Arthur."

"Yeah, alright. Don't go getting all girly on me. I'm sick of only having bootlickers for company. They can't take a joke."

"They're not the only ones."

Arthur narrows his eyes. "Keep talking, Merlin. Keep talking."

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A/N: Wow! An update! (wow!) Two of them in two days, it's a halloween miracle.

Not much to say about this chapter. I'll be putting in an epilogue next and that'll be it for Merlin's poor wrist.

Thank you for sticking with this story, and thank you for reading! Feedback is much appreciated.


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